


and how it lost me all i wanted

by duets



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duets/pseuds/duets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>steve, and dealing with the dignity of bucky's choice.</p><p>-</p><p>aka: #BuckyStayed</p>
            </blockquote>





	and how it lost me all i wanted

**Author's Note:**

> my nitpicking nature compels me to warn that some suspension of disbelief need be allowed re: twinklings made irt to the film timeline so that it'd fit the dates of establishment of the u.s. army's advanced service rating score. it's winter and it's 1944 and they're miserable and there's guilt.

 

 

You dance around each other for a while, the question hanging in the space neither of you crosses. He lights a cigarette, doesn't put it to his mouth. You sit there in his tent, night after night, until the flame dies down.

Before, you could never stay in the same room as him when he was smoking, could barely stomach the aftertaste of it in the air, hours later. The smell of it clinging to his clothes, stuck to the back of your throat. Before, he never smoked anywhere near you if he could help it. Now, you sit there in his tent, breathe the smoke in, secondhand, a waste in the way he never puts it to his mouth. You sit there, night after night, and you don't ask.

His hands shake. You look away.

  


  
A part of you hopes they'll put him in intelligence, go through Bucky's school records, see the promise there, and give him a desk job. You go as far as mentioning it, in passing, to Phillips.

They make him a sniper instead. Because there's need for one, and the rest of you are decent enough marksmen, yeah, sure thing, but nothing quite at Bucky's level.

They make him a sniper instead, and you clasp him on the shoulder, smile like there's a camera hiding somewhere in the bombed out sludge that used to be a city. You let your fingers curl, nothing arbitrary to the movement. You clasp him on the shoulder companionably and say, as if to a crowd in Chicago, _well,_ _there sure ain't no one I'd trust more to have my back in a fight._

It sounds rehearsed, and you can feel his eyes and Peggy's, studying you. But you put your hand on him all the same, heavy with guilt and trying not to show it, the part of you that's sixteen and selfish and wants him always on your line of sight, clutching him close and thinking _good,_ awash with relief.

  


  
You almost ask.

They've given you an uniform, and your title now sits on your shoulders as something else rather than an ill fitting costume.

It's been a couple of weeks. His eyes are red around the edges, hair in a disarray that begs for touch like a bruise. You barely see him between the tests and the meetings, barely see him until the pub. And then. You almost ask. The words clustered together at the tip of your tongue, crushing each other like they were people in a bread line. Your mouth heavy with it, you almost ask.

You're reaching for him, but he cracks a smile, crooked and sharp, and you get distracted. He's looking at you, then turning away, saying _you'll keep the outfit, right_ , eyes wet with something you have to believe is drink. You quip back, _maybe I will_ and it is almost sincere, almost easy.  
  
You almost ask again, later, when he's perched somewhere, watching you from across a scope. He sleeps as little as you nowadays, and your meetings invariably involve you almost reaching out, mouth open for a half formed sentence. You almost ask, many times.

But then you remember the pub, the piano, drag the memory up like a rosary, and you don't have to.  
  
Remember him, there, watching you from across a scope, a room, a field, close enough to touch. Almost ask, and then _can't._

  
  
  


By September, Bucky has enough points to go back home.

He doesn't.

You, selfish coward that you are, bite your tongue, smile big and sincere and undeserving. You think only _good, good, stay,_ giddy with a relief that threatens to burst you to pieces.

  
  
  


You know Rebecca writes, can more or less theorise the content of her letters by observing the curve of Bucky’s shoulders, his jaw working as he reads. Sometimes, the other kids write too, scraps of paper taped to Rebecca's longer missives.

You wonder sometimes, something almost like amusement creeping behind the sorrow, at just how quickly you'd lost any goodwill the Barneses had for you, how it all vanished the moment you kept Bucky from going back.

You wonder at how much guilt can a person reasonably carry before they keel over from it.

  
  
  


There's a photograph somewhere, from the last summer the two of you still miraculously matched heights. Bucky has Rebecca perched precariously on his shoulder like a pirate's bird, and to the left, there's you with the babies, infants only in name, each hanging to one of your arms like unruly monkeys. In the picture, there's a shadow crossing by, Mrs Barnes, and it's resting just shy of Bucky’s face, the cool grey making his smile turn brighter by contrast.

The sunburn from that day lasted you two whole weeks.

He always looked better in summer, black hair turning reddish at the tips from too much time at the docks, or out delivering things for his parents, or sneaking out across the bridge with you.

The places they send you to now are always cold, always wet. You stare at him from across a fire, unabashed, waiting for his eyebrow to rise, sardonic and familiar, when he inevitably catches you at it. Like this, watching Bucky be washed in warm reds, you think about that photograph, the five of you, kids that would barely reach your waist, now all adults.

You think about Rebecca’s letters, remember a time when she was still learning to read, Bucky at her elbow, guiding her through it, always grinning, never losing his patience. Winters spent inside, reading out loud, summers at the beach.

Snow starts falling, heavy like a rainstorm, and he calls for you from across the fire, as if reading your thoughts. _Take me somewhere warm next time, will you._

You don't say _I'll take you home_ , don't trust your voice to stay even. Instead, you quip back:

_Arizona desert sound warm enough for you?_

_Sure, pal. Always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Fits my disposition._

_What? Dry and inhospitable?_

He throws a snowball square to your face, aim as true as ever, mumbles something about having your impertinent ass court-martialed. The others laugh at your expense, and you smile, guiltless for the moment. You think about that beach, and this fire, and how his smile has always the same scorching warmth in any weather.

You think about bringing him back home, repentance.

  
  


You remember being eleven, furious, absolutely livid with it, turning on your heels, angry, snapping at him.

You'd asked, _Why'd keep following me?_

He had a thing, used to, where at his moments of greatest petulance, he'd jut out his chin, defiant jerk that he was.

_Why? Gonna do something about it?_

You'd squinted at him. _Don't you have better things to do?_

He shrugged, a sharp quick thing, said, _Maybe I don't._

You can't remember anymore why you had been so mad at him at the time. Still, you recall with intense, painful clarity the way you'd rolled your eyes, snapped back _Suit yourself_ and walked away.

You remember not even bothering to look behind you, certain he was following even if he'd never made much noise while walking.

_Annoying jerk._

_By all means, feel free to file a complaint, you mouthy punk._

  
  
  


The day before, he’d had a cough, of all things. It'd shaken him the entire night, rattling out of his mouth like he was being choked. Said it was a nervous tick, the cigarettes, all the goddamn snow. Still, you asked:

“You sure you don't wanna stay?”

“Nah,” he replied, voice rough around the edges. “I already packed and everything.”

And that had been that.

  
  
  


They turn him into a number, a footnote, when you stop being one. It makes you laugh, hysterical and loose in a way that you can only link back to being feverish, delirious. It makes your throat dry, makes you feel like you deserve no water.

You remember too much, all at once.

His back curving, sunlight on his shoulder blades, the warmth of his skin, summer kissed and sweaty, disgusting, really, go take a shower or something. The way you will never yell at him for using all the hot water again. The way the two of you will never again hear _don’t go out in the sun too much_ from Mrs Schrader down the corridor, chastising you like you were children, too freckled and too tan.

Peggy says, _allow Barnes the dignity of his choice._

It snows the entire night, after.

You don't want to allow him a damn thing. You want to get drunk, you want for it to not be so cold. And you want him _back._

  
  
  


By September, Bucky had enough points to go home.

 

 

 

 


End file.
